


Serenade for the End of the World

by DonnesCafe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Angst, Apocalypse, End of the World, First Kiss, First Time, Fluffy Angst, Love, M/M, Post-Season/Series 02 AU, angst with a sort of (?) happy ending if you squint at it in just the right way, possible character deaths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-23
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-02-22 06:20:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2497718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DonnesCafe/pseuds/DonnesCafe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I never get tired of reading (or writing) about Sherlock and John's first kiss / first time. So another one. And I figured some day I'd succumb to the end of the world trope. Today's that day. Takes place in an AU post S-2 - Sherlock and John are back together in Baker Street. Mary never happened. Sorry Mary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Serenade for the End of the World

Until recently, quite recently, dark matter had just been a hypothesis. Then, sometime in the wee hours of the morning, it turned from a theoretical place-holder for cosmologists into an actual, albeit invisible, black cloud that was moving rapidly through the solar system toward earth. Sherlock had tried to explain it to him as they sat at the cluttered kitchen table over cups of Irish Breakfast tea. The explanation struck John as an incomprehensible string of nonsense syllables (WMAP’s, Jan Oort, gravitational lensing, nucleosynthesis, and something about a galactic bulge). 

Giving up on Sherlock’s explanation, he’d listened for a while to the talking heads and experts natter on the telly. He didn’t know which had been worse. By mid-morning, the talking heads’ voices took on a hysterical edge. Volcanos on Mars, gamma radiation, extinction. Apocalypse now. What had finally, really, frightened John was that Sherlock didn’t shout his usual abuse at the wide-eyed blond on telly who talked about the volcanos and the radiation. 

When John turned off the television, Sherlock was standing at the door to his bedroom, phone in hand. He waved the phone. “It was Mycroft,” he said. His lips tightened, and he didn't quite meet John's eyes. He put the phone down on the side table by John’s chair. Then he retrieved his violin from the shelf. He took blank music manuscript paper from the bottom drawer of the desk. He uncapped his favorite Mont Blanc, leaned over the paper, and wrote something on the top of a page with a flourish. 

“So we’re screwed,” said John. 

Sherlock nodded, still looking down at the page. “94.7 percent probability. Give or take, Mycroft says. He’s rarely wrong.” 

“How soon?” 

“Sometime before tomorrow morning, I should think.” Sherlock picked up the violin, plucked and tuned. He turned toward the window, bow poised over the strings. “What if this present were the world’s last night?” he asked the window, softly. 

“What’s that?” John asked. 

Sherlock turned from the window, lowered the bow. Finally met John's eyes. “Just a poem. John Donne. ‘What if this present were the world’s last night.’” 

“Well, it is then, isn’t it? Bet he never thought it would go down quite this way.” 

“No, I’m sure he didn’t. Although he had a rather apocalyptic frame of mind. He imagined a more poetic end for it all. Angels blowing their trumpets at the corners of the world. Souls reunited with their scattered bodies. Sometimes, John, it's… bloody inconvenient not to believe in angels. Or souls. Or eternity. Just physics and chance, both of which seem to have….” He shrugged. 

“Buggered us,” said John. 

“Eloquent as always. Buggered by a drifting cloud of dark matter which has fetched up in our insignificant corner of the universe.” 

John looked at Sherlock. What did one say about that, then? Ta, it’s been nice knowing you? You saved me? I love you? What would you like for our last dinner together? Sorry I got mad about the head in the fridge? I have loved you from the first night I knew you? Do you love me? John cleared his throat. 

“So, what are you writing?” 

“I thought I’d call it _Serenade for the End of the World_ ,” said Sherlock. He turned, the bow met the strings, and a hesitant melody ghosted through the room, slow, sweet. Sherlock stopped, made some notations on the paper. 

“Sherlock?” 

“Hmm?” 

John sighed. He walked up to his friend, “Sherlock, are you sure that’s how you want to spend your last day?” He pointed toward the sheet, the few precise black-ink musical notations. “There won’t be anybody but me to hear it. Ever.” 

Sherlock shrugged. “Solving the Case of the Murdered Mortician, as you call it, seems somewhat irrelevant at this point. Considering. And my paper on the chemical interversion of gamma-hydroxybutyric with GBL will obviously never be finished, much less published. So unless you have a better idea…” 

“I have several better ideas, actually. I don’t want to spend my last day on earth being scared and sad, yeah? I’ve had a good life. I’d rather go out with a bang than a whimper. Sod the Black Cloud.” 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “And of what would this… bang… consist exactly?” 

John took a deep breath. “First, we should invite our friends over for an End of the World party.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Trite,” he said. 

“Maybe,” said John, “but I want to see them before… before. I bet they feel the same.” 

Sherlock set the violin and bow down on the desk. “I am not … averse… to seeing Molly. And we shouldn’t leave Mrs. Hudson by herself, of course. She’ll be frightened. It would be good to take her mind off … everything. And Giancarlo, of course.” 

John smiled. Sherlock had a softer heart than he liked to admit. “Greg, you wanker.” 

“Yes, I know. Greg.” 

“And Mycroft,” said John in his don’t-talk-back-to-me captain’s voice. 

“Yes, of course Mycroft. And Anthea or Juliet or Sephronia or whatever her name is this week. And Sally and the idiot.” 

“Anderson?” He was so astonished that he forgot to be astonished that Sherlock hadn’t refused to invite his brother. “I thought you hated him?” 

“Well, he turned out to be not quite as much an idiot as I thought. He figured out some of the places I’d been, after….,” They still skirted around the issues of Sherlock’s fall and disappearance. He had been back almost a year. They had settled back to life in Baker Street, but they hadn’t quite settled back into their relationship. John was sorry about that. Especially now. He should have been more understanding. He thought he would have more time. 

Sherlock was still talking. “He was sorry for what he did. He even sort of missed me. Besides, he and Sally don’t have family. His wife finally left him. Don’t look at me as if I’ve grown an extra head, John. It might be… nice… to have people….,” his voice trailed off. He shrugged. “Besides, more people for Cleudo.” 

“We’re not playing Cleudo.” 

“You said we would only play again over your dead body. This is as close as we’re going to get, John.” Luckily, one thing they shared was their rather macabre sense of humor. They smiled at each other. John put his hand on Sherlock’s arm and squeezed. 

“OK, I’ll call them all. You go down and talk to Mrs. Hudson, and start thinking about food. And, look, Sherlock, there’s something else.” 

“Yes, John?” 

John took a deep breath. Let it out slowly. “Look, Sherlock. I probably would never have said this, but I’m going to. I’ve always thought about saying it. Bloody hell.” He looked down. Didn’t say anything. He took his hand from Sherlock’s arm. “This is hard. I’m not good at this sort of thing.” 

“John, you can say anything to me.” The voice was soft. Low. Inviting. “Now, of all times, you can say anything.” 

“OK,” said John, looking up. Another deep breath. “I’ve been in love with you since the first night I knew you. I’ve wanted you. Always. But I know you said….” 

Suddenly Sherlock’s arms were around him. “I know what I said. I was an idiot John. I am an idiot.” Sherlock’s voice was fierce, and his arms tightened. John felt Sherlock’s lips in his hair. “I want you, too,” the voice went on, somewhat muffled by the hair. “My God, John, I thought it was too late. Is it too late?” 

John drew back, and looked into eyes dilated with desire, storm-grey, beautiful. “It’s pretty damned late,” he said. 

“End of the world late,” said Sherlock. “But not too late. This was on my things to do before I die list.” 

“Oh, was it?” asked John. “What, snog John Watson?” 

“Actually, it’s a fairly long list. The things I want to do to you. But it can be summarized as ‘make love to John Watson.’” Sherlock bent down and kissed softly along John’s neck, tonguing the hollow behind his ear. 

John drew Sherlock’s head down and kissed him. Softly at first, then Sherlock’s mouth opened under his. Sherlock’s hands cupped the back of his head, thumbs stroking along his jaw-line. 

~~~~~  


“So, does this mean the party’s off?” They lay, a tangle of naked limbs, on the floor of the lounge. “We’ve done several of the things on my list,” Sherlock said, “but it’s quite a long list. And there are some things I'd like to do more than once. Like that thing we did last. That was.... good. ” Sherlock trailed his fingers over the scar on John’s shoulder. Then he leaned over and kissed it. 

John sighed and ran his fingers through Sherlock’s tangled curls. He had always, always wanted to do that. Among several of the other things he had just done. “No, the party’s not off, just a bit delayed. At the end of…,” he swallowed and pressed a kiss on Sherlock’s sweaty forehead. “It’s still a good plan. And sometime at the end of the evening, we’ll just go upstairs to my room and leave them to it. They’ll all understand.” 

“I know, John. I think they understood before we did.” 

So they showered, dressed, and started arranging for the 221B End-of-The-World-As-We-Know-It-Party, as John insisted on calling it. 

“They need to get here soon, definitely before dark. Tell Greg to bring his gun. There may be….,” said Sherlock. 

“I know,” said John. There would probably be riots, but he didn’t want to say it out loud. They would gather in 221B and shut the rest of the world out. By force if necessary. 

~~~~~  


Things fell into place nicely, considering that the rioting had already started. Mycroft sent cars for everyone with armed drivers. Everyone came, except Anthea. Anthea, it turned out, had a lover in Helsinki, so Mycroft had sent her off with thanks, a kiss, and a private jet. 

Sherlock and John cleaned the flat for the party. They had had to clean off the kitchen table twice since instead of having lunch they had worked their way through several of the items on Sherlock’s list, one of which had involved the kitchen table. For someone that John had half suspected was asexual, Sherlock turned out to be an imaginative lover. He tried very hard not to regret the time they had wasted. 

Mycroft arrived at the flat in mid-afternoon with two large Fortnum & Mason hampers and several of the best bottles of wine from his cellars. He had been saving the Chateau LaTour 1945 for a special occasion. This was, indeed, special in quite an unexpected way. Mycroft’s presence was what convinced John, finally, that the coming destruction was all too real. If the British Government thought there was nothing more he could do…. Well. 

By unspoken and mutual consent, none of them talked about what was coming. John did catch Sally crying in Sherlock’s bedroom at one point, but Sherlock came in, kissed her on the cheek, said something low to her that John couldn’t hear. She nodded, lifted her chin, and went off to snog Anderson on the sofa. 

They all talked of past cases and music and books and memories and family and friends. And wine and good food. Greg had brought steaks and beer. Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft dove into the Fortnum hampers and started cooking an elaborate dinner, both swathed in frilly aprons from Martha’s kitchen. 

Molly brought Toby, who settled in John’s chair with a long-suffering mew. She and Greg found some old LPs that John didn’t even realize Sherlock had. Old Big Band stuff. They danced, each with one hand holding a beer, the other hand low on the hip of the other. That, thought John a bit sadly, might have worked. A pity they didn’t have time to work it out. 

Sherlock danced with Mrs. Hudson, leaving her breathless and beaming. She looked even happier when Sherlock danced with John to _They Can’t Take That Away From Me._ They left the dishes on the table, the pots and pans in the sink. Toward midnight, John looked around. Mrs. Hudson was asleep on the sofa with Toby curled against her. Molly and Greg were dancing again, Molly's head on Lestrade's shoulder. Anderson and Sally had adjourned to Sherlock’s bedroom. Mycroft sat in John’s chair with a Waterford whiskey glass filled almost to the rim with thirty-year-old Laphroig. He lifted the glass toward John and Sherlock. “It’s been a pleasure, brother mine. Thank you for inviting me.” 

Sherlock crossed to him and lightly kissed his forehead. Mycroft started to speak, but Sherlock put one long, white finger on his lips. “Thanks for coming, Myc. Goodnight.” 

Mycroft nodded, smiled, and sipped his whiskey. “Goodnight, Sherlock. ‘Night, John.” 

John and Sherlock climbed slowly up the stairs to John’s old room, undressed, and slipped beneath the covers. They were quickly lost in each other. In the dark hours, in the dark room, their voices wove together with hands, murmurs, the slow sweet beats of desire stretching minutes into eternities. And if the black cloud passed through Baker Street, they never knew it.


End file.
